Threading the Needle by Marie Bostwick Page A

her as a pup with the idea that she’d help in rounding up the other animals; border collies are bred to have strong herding instincts. Spitz spends hours pacing back and forth outside the goat enclosure, eyes glued to their every move. But inside the fence, she has no clue, just zooms around the pen, barking at the goats as though challenging them to a race. At first they were scared of her, but now they just ignore her. Poor Spitz. She couldn’t herd her way out of a paper bag, but she’s a good dog.
    Spitz barked as Lee climbed into the truck cab, turned the key in the ignition, and pressed the gas pedal a few times, coaxing the engine to catch.
    â€œSix o’clock! Our bedroom!” He shouted to be heard over the rattle and knock of Mustang Sally’s engine. “You, me, a bottle of champagne, and a night to remember!”
    I curled my fingers over the edge of the open window, raised myself up on my toes, and puckered my lips for a kiss.
    â€œSix o’clock!” I shouted before stepping onto the sidewalk. He winked as he shifted gears and hit the gas, his engine so loud that people on the street turned to look as he drove off.
    Sometimes I find it hard to remember that this manly man in the beat-up pickup, his handsome face tanned by wind and weather, his hands capable and calloused by work, is the same man who used to spend his days sitting behind a computer screen tallying up debits and credits under the sickly glow of fluorescent lighting. He is now, as he was then, a good man, a hard worker, faithful and responsible and the true love of my life. But he’s changed since we moved to New Bern, and though Lee may not realize this, it’s a change for the better.
    Leaving two secure corporate jobs with benefits to grow tomatoes and sell potpourri might sound crazy and impulsive, but it wasn’t something we did on a whim. Lee and I discussed it for months before we took the plunge, planning everything out carefully, making budgets and timelines and lists both pro and con. But if it doesn’t work out according to our carefully laid plans, I’m worried that Lee will blame me. We made this decision together, but I was the one who started the ball rolling.
    Fall’s official start was still a few weeks off, but as I walked east on Commerce Street, the morning air felt crisp though the sun was shining brightly. Looking across the street toward the Green, I spied a squirrel scurrying through the grass, pushing aside a sparse blanket of yellowed leaves in search of nuts, finding none, then sitting up on its hind legs and staring up at the branches of the tree expectantly. And just in case I’d missed the signs of impending autumn, an ancient yellow school bus pulled up at the corner and opened its doors with a mechanical sigh. It was the first day of school. I’d forgotten. When I was a child, school didn’t start until after Labor Day.
    I stopped to watch the kids with slick-combed hair and new backpacks pile onto the bus. One little guy in particular caught my attention. He had freckles and a cowlick, like Josh did when he was little. Judging from the number of times his mother blinked her eyes as she waved to him through the window and the way she clutched at the hand of his baby brother, this was Freckle Face’s first day of first grade.
    The doors sighed and closed as the last tiny scholar climbed aboard. The mothers waved frantically as the bus shuddered and pulled away with its precious cargo. After Freckle Face’s bus rounded the corner and was safely out of sight, his mother’s face crumpled like discarded tissue paper and she bent down to pick up her youngest, a chubby, dimple-kneed toddler, and crushed him to her breast. The tiny boy squirmed in her arms and protested, “Mommy! Yer squashin’ me!” as the other mothers encircled the woman to offer Kleenex and comfort.
    If I wasn’t already late opening the shop, I might have